Aunt Petunia said nothing. Dudley was staring stupidly at his mother, his mouth hanging open. The silence spiralled horribly.

Harry was watching his aunt, utterly bewildered, his head throbbing fit to burst.

‘Petunia, dear?’ said Uncle Vernon timidly. ‘P-Petunia?’

She raised her head. She was still trembling. She swallowed.

‘The boy – the boy will have to stay, Vernon,’ she said weakly.

‘W-what?’

‘He stays,’ she said. She was not looking at Harry. She got to her feet again.

‘He … but Petunia …’

‘If we throw him out, the neighbours will talk,’ she said. She was rapidly regaining her usual brisk, snappish manner, though she was still very pale. ‘They’ll ask awkward questions, they’ll want to know where he’s gone. We’ll have to keep him.’

Uncle Vernon was deflating like an old tyre.

‘But Petunia, dear –’

Aunt Petunia ignored him. She turned to Harry.

‘You’re to stay in your room,’ she said. ‘You’re not to leave house. Now get to bed.’